


Blessed was the year

by rillaelilz



Series: sb countdown 2017 [1]
Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Alternate Universe - Victorian, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2017-12-01
Packaged: 2019-02-09 06:26:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12882063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rillaelilz/pseuds/rillaelilz
Summary: This is just a stranger his father hired; one he might never have to talk to at all. So, of course Baz doesn’t care about some average Simon Snow, ambling about the Pitches’ property in snug breeches and shirtsleeves as he may well be.





	Blessed was the year

**Author's Note:**

> For today's prompt - _your favourite trope_. I have the tendency to forget all of my favourite things EVER, so I went for the next best thing, also the only one I could think of: some good old nobleman/paesant action :D The ghost of inaccuracies will haunt me forever *rolls off a cliff, pursued by a bear*

 

 

When Baz comes home from Oxford, one merciless summer in 1852, he’s almost surprised to hear about the new farmhand the household acquired while he was away. Most of their staff always came from old Gram’s family -  _one master, one servant_ , as it had been for three hundred and fifty-five years or so.

But then, old Gram  _is_  old (a maid once mistook the creaking of his knees for an avenging spirit and ran halfway to the next village before they could stop her), and what with all of his seven daughters being married off within the last decade, Baz can see how this happened in the first place.

Baz’s mind is set on indifference anyway. This is just a stranger his father hired; one he might never have to talk to at all. So, of course he doesn’t care about some average  _Simon Snow_ , ambling about the Pitches’ property in snug breeches and shirtsleeves as he may well be.

Baz really doesn’t care. He doesn’t! For about two days. Then he sort of does.

 

His curiosity is sparked off when Mordelia first brings Snow up.

She spends approximately thirty-seven minutes digressing about the boy’s weird coppery hair, and his big hands that can fit four large peaches at once without dropping any; and, to Baz’s amusement, it turns out that she  _likes_  him. And Mordelia, in all her irritating, lace-wrapped, ribbon-topped, pouty glory, hardly ever likes anyone.

Next comes his step-mother. She’s less surprising, but far more obvious in her sympathies. As soon as she purses her heart-shaped lips and launches in a tirade over how thin and clearly underfed the poor fellow is, Baz knows she is besotted. Daphne’s motherly urges to feed people are a rare but _unmistakable_ sign of affection; he gets it himself at least every other day.

Wisely enough, Baz chooses to ignore the way Aunt Fiona pinches her eye into a wink at the first mention of Simon’s name; but when he gets a grunt of approval from Vera, he  _knows_  he must see this guy for himself.

So, naturally, Baz watches him - unnoticed, from the estate’s soft, draughty shadows. 

 

He catches glimpses of freckled cheeks and a breadcrumb-dusted chin from the kitchens’ doorway. Mulls over the sound of Simon’s laughter, fresh and foreign between the House’s stale walls.

Follows his frame from the shade of the hazel trees, learning the way Simon moves, the way sunlight glints off his hair and sets his skin aglow.

Watches him from his window, pretending not to see; fingers leafing blindly through a copy of Wuthering Heights, the one Aunt Fiona slipped in his hands last Christmas, the pages spread helplessly in his lap.

Sometimes, when he forgets himself, Baz thinks Simon might be like Heathcliff; the outsider, the charmer; the unexpected burst of passion under a stone-cold roof. But Simon has nothing dark or haunting about him. Simon is wild like heather, yes - and as warm as the sun.

And the clumsiest person Baz has ever met.

The man  _actually_  trips over his own feet once, in the stables, and comes barreling into Baz like a landslide, sweeping both Baz and his polished riding boots along with him.

He does have the decency to look embarrassed, at least - he jumps to his feet sputtering apology after apology, and then he thrusts his hand out to Baz, sun-warm smile and all.

“I reckon you’re the young Master Pitch,” he beams, broad shoulders hunched forward, his shirt collar gaping to show a sliver of golden skin underneath. “I’m Simon. Here, let me help you, sir.”

Baz nearly chokes on his own spit. This must be the most undignified he’s ever looked, down on his arse in a heap of dirty hay (and quite possibly, excrement), and he sould tell this guy, this– this  _fool_ , that he’s never needed help in his life.

To Mordelia’s credit, though, Simon does have remarkably big hands. Powerful-looking,  _very distracting_  hands. And while his palm looks rough, his eyes are kind; as kind as Baz pictured them, looking from afar.

And since he’s ultimately a weak, weak man, Baz lets himself be hoisted up, and shivers when he feels Simon’s calloused fingers wrap securely around his own hand.

“Basilton,” he chokes out, dizzy under the scrutiny of Simon’s blue eyes, “my name is– Basilton.”

The way Simon looks at him, shining eyes and toe-curling smile, is something out of a daydream, and Baz’s cheeks burn.

“Yes, Mister Pitch.”


End file.
